I feel that this passage illuminates a subtle distinction between two different ways of knowing: on the one hand, we may know intellectually and speak about the concept of "universal oneness," and on the other hand, we can experience the reality of Universal Oneness as a state of being. In the second, we experience and live the truth; in the first, we are living in an illusion while thinking—and maybe talking about—the idea of "universal oneness." Sathguru Vasudev points out how different the two states are: that we may think and talk about oneness, while not living the reality of Oneness. And that's damaging. Metaphorically, it's like two kids trapped in the attic, playing a video game together. In the world of their video game, they escape the attic and explore the rest of the house. But if someone in their family tries to tell them that they are stuck in the attic, they insist that they have already escaped, and are roaming through the house freely. They are looking at the house only in their imagination—the video game. But meanwhile, they are rotting away, starving in the attic. The reality of the house *as it really is* is less likely to be experienced by them, because they feel they have already escaped. And everything they tell people about is not from a place of actually knowing the house, but only imagining the house. So not only will they likely hinder their own awareness of Union, but they may give others a false understanding and hinder other's awareness as well. I know myself how inflated my ego becomes when I think I understand something of a spiritual nature, and talk about it as if I know. But it only causes problems for myself and others. I become a pretender, a mountebank, charlatan, and ultimately, a hypocrite. But as Sadhguru Vasudev concludes, any idea or thought kills the experience of Reality, which is beyond ideas or thoughts. I think he is urging us to slay and bury ALL of our thoughts—particularly our "spiritual" id See full.

I feel that this passage illuminates a subtle distinction between two different ways of knowing: on the one hand, we may know intellectually and speak about the concept of "universal oneness," and on the other hand, we can experience the reality of Universal Oneness as a state of being. In the second, we experience and live the truth; in the first, we are living in an illusion while thinking—and maybe talking about—the idea of "universal oneness." Sathguru Vasudev points out how different the two states are: that we may think and talk about oneness, while not living the reality of Oneness. And that's damaging. Metaphorically, it's like two kids trapped in the attic, playing a video game together. In the world of their video game, they escape the attic and explore the rest of the house. But if someone in their family tries to tell them that they are stuck in the attic, they insist that they have already escaped, and are roaming through the house freely. They are looking at the house only in their imagination—the video game. But meanwhile, they are rotting away, starving in the attic. The reality of the house *as it really is* is less likely to be experienced by them, because they feel they have already escaped. And everything they tell people about is not from a place of actually knowing the house, but only imagining the house. So not only will they likely hinder their own awareness of Union, but they may give others a false understanding and hinder other's awareness as well. I know myself how inflated my ego becomes when I think I understand something of a spiritual nature, and talk about it as if I know. But it only causes problems for myself and others. I become a pretender, a mountebank, charlatan, and ultimately, a hypocrite. But as Sadhguru Vasudev concludes, any idea or thought kills the experience of Reality, which is beyond ideas or thoughts. I think he is urging us to slay and bury ALL of our thoughts—particularly our "spiritual" ideas (spiritual illusions)—if we long for a true understanding through yoga. This passage is profound and so helpful four our times—particularly in the United States. Thank you for sharing it with us.

Even in some warrior mythologies, the powers of water are exalted. King Arthur, the model knight in England and France, was given his peerless sword, Excalibur, by Vivian, the Lady of the Lake. And after receiving his sword, the wizard Merlin asked Arthur, “Which is greater—the sword or the scabbard?” Arthur replied, “The sword, of course.” But Merlin revealed that the scabbard was the greater, for it while wearing it, Arthur could never be wounded by a blade—as water cannot be cut, but rejoins and mends itself as though nothing ever severed it.

I feel that there is a truth to what Dostoyevsky said, but that it is far more esoteric than what Solzhenitsyn has written about here. My sense is that Beauty resonates with us in a way that is beyond the intellectual mind, under the table of the ego. As Rashimi wrote, Beauty pulls us toward it perhaps because it reminds us that we are one with it already; Beauty tickles our hearts in that place where we are not separate from anything.

I felt a bit saddened reading this piece. Did Solzhenitsyn contradict his meaning with his form? To my ear, the way he expressed his ideas did not sing or dance. Where did the poetry go? Was his beauty was lost in translation? Or is beauty so relative, as David has suggested, that another reader found beauty here that I missed, because I did not have the ears to hear it?

I will continue to ponder the notion that untrue ideas cannot fit into a beautiful form—yet I see an attempt to convey that very thing in advertising on a daily basis. And many of us are hooked by it, seduced...

The ancient Hindu story of the Churning of the Ocean of Milk is a wonderful story to study when we wish to look at the place, the need, and the power of Beauty. It's a tale of how Beauty did save the world. In that myth, Divinity alternates between manifesting and hiding, between the numinous and the seductive, found among the perceptual world—then hopelessly lost—and only recovered again by going deep, deep within.

In the West, we are taught that seeing the slivers of ourselves as parts of our whole represents mental illness! With paradigms like "The Three Faces of Eve" and "Sybil", we're anything but encouraged to patch together our real I. It wreaks havoc on ones grammar, however. Thanks to Gurdjieff, as ever.

thankyou Smita. this book has come up a few times lately and I am now going to read it. the words you quote from Anais Nin are on my wall, beautfully lit by fairy lights! Today I awoke feeling lost and struggling. I accept those feelings as a call from my heart - stay with this, it is all part of your journey. Unfold..x

What a beautiful reminder of what we are, at the core. This whole passage seems itself to be a practice, a meditation, a way. When we all can remember this, wars will end, crimes will cease, and even laws and lawyers will no longer be needed. Isn't all that we desire, and try to get from others—is it not all ultimately about this deep longing for what we already are being given—and always have been?

What is it in me, in all of us, that forgets this? Why, when something within us is so all-pervasive and powerful and true, do I live with little or no awareness of this beauty? Is there also some part of our fundamental nature that forgets the gift that is always given? And, if that forgetfulness is also divine, is that also sacred, and worth revering? So that the dramas of forgetfulness—the torn relationships and the wars, small and enormous—play themselves out?

Thank you for posting this today. Thank you, Ram Dass, for this reminder so beautiful it should be sung.

A lovely piece of writing, Nina. Thank you for sharing it with us all.
I think you are so correct about "stopping" the natural flow as the main cause for a lack of creative expression. Teaching visual art to middle-school students, I often ask on the first day, "Who considers themselves to be an artist?" Ususally, in a good school, about a third of the kids raise their hands. So I ask the others, "When did you stop?"
And what I've found is that most of the students who stopped did so in first or second grade: around ages seven and eight. And most of them stop because another student—almost always an older one—often an eight year old—criticized their work in a cruel or thoughless way. Sometimes it's a critical parent that critizes their child's expressions, but more often, it's an eight year old in their school. How many of us are still letting some eight year old's heartless remark inhibit us? Many of us today draw like seven or eight year olds only because that's when we stopped.
So perhaps that voice that you refer to that tells us to stop wasn't really our voice in the first place, but a lingering echo from our childhood that's still bouncing around in there.
Can we return to that old wound, bring it to consciousness again, and sense the absurdity of the power it still holds over us?
Must we actually return to an earlier age when the creative functions are flowing, and criticism isn't a part of our thinking? I could not give myself the freedom to be uninhibited in my expressions until I volunteered in a kindergarten class while in my early twenties. Watching those kids sing, dance, draw, perform, and express without any thoughts of self-judgement gave me permission somewhere to do the same: first in their class, then in other classrooms in schools, and finally around adults. I was healed by a class of five year olds.
I'm not a parent, but I wonder if parents have children who allow them to be cre See full.

A lovely piece of writing, Nina. Thank you for sharing it with us all.

I think you are so correct about "stopping" the natural flow as the main cause for a lack of creative expression. Teaching visual art to middle-school students, I often ask on the first day, "Who considers themselves to be an artist?" Ususally, in a good school, about a third of the kids raise their hands. So I ask the others, "When did you stop?"

And what I've found is that most of the students who stopped did so in first or second grade: around ages seven and eight. And most of them stop because another student—almost always an older one—often an eight year old—criticized their work in a cruel or thoughless way. Sometimes it's a critical parent that critizes their child's expressions, but more often, it's an eight year old in their school. How many of us are still letting some eight year old's heartless remark inhibit us? Many of us today draw like seven or eight year olds only because that's when we stopped.

So perhaps that voice that you refer to that tells us to stop wasn't really our voice in the first place, but a lingering echo from our childhood that's still bouncing around in there.

Can we return to that old wound, bring it to consciousness again, and sense the absurdity of the power it still holds over us?

Must we actually return to an earlier age when the creative functions are flowing, and criticism isn't a part of our thinking? I could not give myself the freedom to be uninhibited in my expressions until I volunteered in a kindergarten class while in my early twenties. Watching those kids sing, dance, draw, perform, and express without any thoughts of self-judgement gave me permission somewhere to do the same: first in their class, then in other classrooms in schools, and finally around adults. I was healed by a class of five year olds.

I'm not a parent, but I wonder if parents have children who allow them to be creative again as adults. Has anyone had that experience?